


Impressions

by Roselightfairy



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Established Relationship, M/M, Meet the Family, POV Outsider, Protective Significant Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:15:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27305455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roselightfairy/pseuds/Roselightfairy
Summary: It is a dull day to be a guard in Erebor – that is, until the unexpected arrival of an elf bearing a wounded Gimli in his arms. The elf refuses to leave Gimli’s side, or even to give his name, until presented to Gimli’s parents – but even then, he seems to be hiding something about his relationship with Gimli . . .
Relationships: Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf
Comments: 12
Kudos: 167
Collections: Good Intentions: Abandoned and Unfinished WIPs





	Impressions

**Author's Note:**

> My final entry for the Good Intentions WIP Fest – the last WIP I’m ready to release into the world. I’m not entirely sure exactly where this would have gone; this was probably the second or third piece of fanfic I attempted to write for these two, way back in the summer of 2017. The idea for the fic was meant to be a bit of a successor to Comfort, assuming that the way they had gotten together and their plans for the future were consistent with that fic, and the idea ultimately ended up being twisted and inverted into the story that became [Worth](%E2%80%9D) . . . and then I just kind of dropped this fic. But it was still a lot of fun to write, and I enjoy outsider POV for these two, so I’m glad for the excuse to share it with the world.
> 
> It’s not exactly complete or incomplete; it just kind of . . . stops. And then I never picked it up again because it didn’t have much of a point or an ending. It was just an indulgence, but I hope that you will be interested in indulging as well!

Guard duty is not very exciting.

Well, actually, it has been exciting in the past; more specifically, in the past few months, when the servants of the Enemy were showing up in alarming numbers, all demanding _answers_ or _surrender_ and eventually, demanding nothing at all, but flooding the gates in numbers the dwarves were only just able to repel, which have still left the stronghold reeling –

That is over, for the most part, and guard duty has returned to being boring, and in general that brings more relief than anything else. But it does not mean that guard duty is _enjoyable_.

Still, it is more exciting these days than it has been in the past, and in particular because news keeps coming – news about the fall of Sauron; news about the new king of Gondor, who has taken his throne –

And not, yet, the news that Glóin, who is currently the least popular resident of the mountain, is awaiting. News of his son, who went off on the quest that allegedly led to the Enemy’s downfall. Word has come that he survived – but little more.

So when they see the horse approach, Dwalur and Edvin perk up.

The horse is riding hard, they can tell immediately, approaching much more quickly than a normal messenger might. They can make out the figure atop it as it comes closer – someone tall, and the horse is large, so it cannot be a dwarf – but as it draws ever nearer, they see the second figure: shorter, limper, half-cradled in the larger one’s arms.

Dwalur and Edvin exchange glances.

“Halt!” Edvin calls when the rider is near enough to hear. “State your name and your purpose!”

The rider does not halt until the horse is directly upon them, and when he finally does, Dwalur and Edvin can both make out the figure riding in front. Shorter, indeed, with a long beard – a dwarf, most certainly, and if Dwalur isn’t very much mistaken –

“Help him,” gasps the rider, springing from the horse in a motion too fluid and fast to be seen properly. Dwalur’s eyes narrow, but he has no time to check his suspicions as the newcomer swings the dwarf into his arms off of the horse. “He must see your healers immediately.”

“Your name” – begins Edvin, but Dwalur has recognized the dwarf, and the stranger speaks before he can finish.

“My name I will give you later,” he says, “for unless I miss my guess strife will accompany it and we have not the time. His must suffice – this is Gimli Glóin’s son, one of the Nine Walkers and my companion, and I will not see him suffer longer than I must.”

Edvin wants to protest, Dwalur can tell, but the dwarf in the stranger’s arms is Gimli without a doubt, and his face is slack and blood seeps through a bandage on his shoulder. “Very well,” he says. “Give him over to me, and I will take him to the healers while you remain here to tell us your errand here.”

The stranger’s mouth firms up. “I will not leave his side,” he says, quietly, but in a voice ringing with sudden authority. “You may keep the point of your axe at my neck as we go, and I will answer any questions you will – _after_ I have seen my friend cared for.”

Dwalur’s blood goes hot and muscles tight with irritation, but he looks at the face of the stranger and knows that there will be no fighting. With a disgruntled huff, he crosses his arms. “Fine, then,” he says. “But leave your weapons.”

Perhaps it says something about his desperation – or even his character – that the stranger does not fight on this. Still holding Gimli in his arms, he turns his back and lets Edvin shuck the bow and quiver from him, then unhooks the knife sheath at his waist and lets it fall.

“And your horse?” Edvin is eyeing the creature suspiciously.

The stranger sighs and says something quickly over his shoulder, in a strange liquid tongue that can only be –

Elvish.

Dwalur gapes at him, but the stranger just says tightly, “He will graze until I return. Now show me the way to the healers.”

Dwalur opens his mouth, and then closes it again. His body goes tight with anger – this is no man; this is an _elf_ , bearing one of their dwarves in his arms, refusing to give them his name – and yet, how can he respond? The elf holds Gimli’s limp form in his arms, and the fire in his eyes shows he will not relinquish it. And he is correct – they do not have time.

Dwalur leads him on, his hand tight on his axe handle. “You are an elf,” he says. “An elf, who dares to demand entrance to our halls” –

“An elf who brings an injured friend to his home,” corrects the elf. “A companion of Gimli’s, and” – He breaks off.

“And?” Dwalur prompts. For all that he is walking at three times his usual pace, the elf’s legs make one stride to two of his, keeping up easily, and it is irksome.

But the elf just shakes his head and cradles Gimli closer to his chest. “You may do what you wish to me,” he says quietly, not even out of breath, “once I know that Gimli is well.”

Dwalur feels his breath catch at the intensity in his voice, but soon enough they have reached the healing halls, and then his voice is occupied in shouting for a healer. The door to the infirmary opens and Naina comes out. She does not even seem to notice the elf; her gaze takes in only the patient in his arms, and she bustles them both inside to get Gimli laid out on a bed.

“Fetch his parents,” she says to Dwalur.

“Very well,” grunts Dwalur. “Come with me, elf.” He doesn’t know what will come of this, but he will not leave the elf unattended in the halls.

The elf shakes his head. “I will not leave him,” he says again.

“Indeed you won’t,” snaps Naina, “because you need to tell me what happened to him. And I’m trusting you, but I warn you, if you try anything, you will be very. Sorry.” The look on her face could have frightened Smaug himself. The elf’s face tightens mulishly, but he says nothing, and Naina turns back to Dwalur. “Get his parents,” she repeats. “And perhaps” – She throws another suspicious look at the elf. “Perhaps some of the guards, as well.”

* * *

Glóin listens to very little of what is said to him when Dwalur comes to fetch him from his quarters. There is very little to hear, to his mind – the important words are _Gimli_ and _healers_ , and that is all he needs to know.

Perhaps some part of his mind might be spared to wonder why there are three warriors coming with them to see his son, but that part is very distracted in his single-minded focus to get to the healers immediately and see Gimli with his own eyes.

Geira walks at his side, just as quickly and just as frantically. Her hand finds his as they walk and presses it tightly, and he knows they are both fearing the same thing: has their son escaped peril only for them to lose him right as they might have had him back?

They burst into the infirmary without bothering to slow down or be quiet. Glóin’s eyes seek his son, and when they find him, they lock on. Gimli lies motionless in a bed, a clean white bandage wrapped around his shoulder, and his eyes closed. Glóin feels a cry of distress wrench itself from his throat and rushes forward –

Only to find Naina blocking his path, with a stern look on her face. “Calm yourself, Glóin,” she says sharply. “Your son lives, and will be well. He was struck with a poisoned blade” –

“Poisoned!” cries Geira –

“ – but,” continues Naina, louder, “the poison was only for temporary paralysis and not death. He sleeps only. I have cleaned and treated his wound, and I believe he will wake soon. It is well that he was brought here so swiftly.” She darts a pointed glance to the side, and that is when Glóin spies the elf.

He supposes the only reason that he did not see him earlier was because he was so focused on Gimli, because the elf is not inconspicuous – in size and position at least, although he is almost alarmingly silent. He sits in a chair not too far from Gimli’s bed, just out of the way of Naina doing her work. It is too short for him, of course, and his chin practically rests atop his knees. His hands are wrapped around them, his body turned toward Gimli even as his head moves. First he offers Naina an acknowledging nod, and then turns to fix an intent stare on Glóin and Geira – and at that stare, Glóin feels his jaw clench, because he has seen this face before.

“You,” growls out of his throat before he can stop himself. Reason might dictate a different reaction, but his emotions are high at the sight of his son – his _son!_ the first sight of his son in _months_ – lying wounded in a bed, with this elf – this son of _Thranduil_ , of all elves the one Glóin most begrudges – sitting by his side. “You, I know.”

“Aye.” The elf releases his knees and practically flows to his feet, with a grace that should not be possible for someone unfolding from that position. “And I know you, Master Glóin. Yet I fear that for all our history we have never been properly introduced.” He bows, _in the correct way_ , with not even a sneer. “I am Legolas, son of Thranduil, at your service.”

Glóin chokes on his own gasp. The world feels wrong all around him – his son is home but not hale, and he stands in the healing ward with a child of Thranduil offering him his service. He wonders if he is dreaming, but he thinks that if this were a dream he would feel much more satisfied than wrongfooted at the last part. And he cannot respond. For one, he has yet to locate his tongue – and the reply, polite as it may be to say it, would require him to offer his service to _Thranduil_ of all people, and even if this does turn out to be a dream, that is something he cannot do.

The elf does not seem surprised. He simply continues. “I refused my name to those at the gates” – his eyes shift to Dwalur for a moment, and then back to Glóin – “because I wished for no delays in bringing Gimli here. I am no healer, yet – I would not leave his side, if I can avoid it.” His eyes turn away from Glóin’s once again, intent stare fixed back on Gimli. Glóin feels the sudden urge to spring between them, to push the elf away from his son, to do _something_ to reconcile the waves of distrust and confusion and – is that _gratitude_ he feels? –

But before he can react, Geira detaches herself from his side, steps forward, and reaches for the elf’s hands.

“Legolas, son of Thranduil,” she says, “I thank you for your haste and care in bringing my son to us. I am Geira, daughter of Gylta, at your service.”

At this indication that a fight is likely not imminent, and the realization that the scene will likely become personal, Glóin can hear the muffled sounds of the guards taking their leave. And he is willing to admit that this is probably the best possible way the confrontation could have gone, so Glóin is grateful to his wife even as he resents her just a bit for not making the elf sweat more.

“And I at yours and your family’s,” he responds quietly, and bows again over their interlocked hands, and it is at this moment that Gimli stirs.

Glóin is ashamed to admit that he doesn’t even notice at first. The motion is almost nothing, just the slightest hitch in his breathing and a shift in the covers, and Glóin’s attention is not on him – but it is because he’s watching the elf that he notices. The elf’s head snaps to the side towards the bed, and in the next second he has dropped Geira’s hands and spun on his heel to sink to his knees beside Gimli’s bed.

Naina shoos him away. “None of that, now,” she snaps impatiently, bustling over to Gimli’s head to feel at his neck. “Let me at him.”

The elf lets himself be shoved to the side, but he remains on his knees, as close to Gimli as he can get. Glóin and Geira, too, press closer, crowd at the foot of the bed to keep their eyes on Gimli’s face. Glóin wants to shove the elf away as well, but he is too busy watching Gimli’s eyelids, seeing the fluttering of his eyelashes –

And when Gimli’s eyes blink open, the word that comes out of his mouth – faint and cracked as it is – is, “Legolas?”

Glóin blinks. He looks to the side to trade an incredulous glance with Geira, who gives a bemused shrug in response.

The elf, for his part, pays them no mind. “Here,” he answers. “I am here, my friend.”

“Where?” Gimli’s head rises a fraction before falling back to the pillow, and Naina moves out of the way so that his view will be clear without his needing to move. Glóin, watching with increasing astonishment, sees his son’s eyes pass unseeing over his own face, searching for something else, and observes his muscles _relax_ when they land on the elf. His hand twitches where it lies beside him, and in a flash, the elf has snatched it up in both of his.

“I am here,” he says again, calmly. “How do you feel?”

Glóin wants to surge forward, to interrupt, but Gimli looks so tired, so intent, that for some reason he finds himself standing back, just watching. “Orcs?” croaks Gimli weakly.

“Slain, or fled.” Glóin’s eyes are locked on his son’s hand folded between two overlong ones, but the elf keeps talking. “I fear I cannot offer you an accurate number, as I stopped counting after you fell.”

“Hmm.” Gimli’s injured arm flexes, and he lets out a gasp of pain. The elf frees one hand to press his arm back down to the bed. “Are you well?”

“I?” The elf laughs incredulously. “You foolish dwarf, who is the one lying in a bed swathed in bandages?”

“Bed.” Gimli blinks. “What bed – where am I?”

“Do you not recognize your surroundings?” The long fingers twitch where they are wrapped around Gimli’s. “We are in your home, Gimli. See – your parents are here.”

“My” – And now Gimli’s eyes are focusing, and his face lights up. “Amad! Adad!” he exclaims, and tries once more to sit up, only to have the elf press down on his uninjured shoulder to hold him to the bed. Gimli scowls at him, but then turns his face back towards Glóin and Geira. “If my nursemaid here will not allow me up, then you must come to me! I have missed you!”

When they move forward, the elf retreats to the back of the room to give them space. Glóin hurries to his vacated space and takes Gimli’s hand in his own. “Gimli,” he manages, switching to Khuzdul – because really, the elf doesn’t need to witness this – “Gimli my lad, welcome home. We have missed you, too.”

The reunion is much gentler than it would have ordinarily been, careful as they must be of Gimli’s weakened state. For his part, Gimli responds in kind, and greets his mother in the same language, accepting their kisses and squeezing their hands in turn. But before too long he switches back to the Common Tongue. “Legolas,” he demands. “Where are you hiding, silly elf? Come out!”

The elf materializes from a corner, where he almost seemed to disappear. “I am still here,” he assures Gimli.

“As if you would leave!” laughs Gimli. “Amad, Adad, I would like to introduce to you Legolas. Over these months, he is become my dearest friend, and as true a companion as any dwarf could ever ask for.”

“You flatter me,” Legolas responds. Glóin looks away from Gimli just for a moment to take in his face, but the eyes are turned away and fixed on his son’s face. As he watches, though, they turn back to him. “We have, however, made all necessary introductions.”

“All?” Gimli cocks an eyebrow questioningly.

The elf inhales sharply. “Gimli” –

There is a long moment of silence, and something seems to pass between them. Glóin follows the gaze between the two faces, but can’t read anything in them. Geira, though, makes a small sound at his side, and the elf’s eyes flicker to her, then back to Gimli’s. Gimli nods as if decided. “You are right,” he says, and then sighs. “Would that I were hale now, that I could show you the halls of my mountain myself!” He looks to Glóin, eyes suddenly shrewd, but dancing with mischief. “I may trust you to show him to my quarters for the night, rather than a dungeon cell, in repayment for past wrongs?”

“Gimli, I need no quarters. I had thought” –

“I know what you had thought,” Gimli interrupts, “in fact, I wager I could guess at both options you had thought, and neither is acceptable.” Another hard stare. “You will accept a room – for my peace of mind if nothing else, my friend.”

The elf sighs out a laugh. “For your peace of mind.”

Glóin and Geira have been doing nothing but watch the byplay, and Glóin feels like there is something big that he is missing here. But his mind has been overthrown enough today – to see his son returned to him alive but wounded, and with an elf in tow, whom he calls friend, and this elf is the son of his own enemy, and has offered him his service – it is all a bit much to take in, so perhaps with a little time it will be better. Clearer. For now, though, he just presses his son’s hand again as Gimli’s eyes flutter shut.

“All right,” interrupts Naina, who has been politely silent – until now. “You are all to leave now, so that Gimli may sleep and I may tend him further in peace. Take the elf to his room – or his dungeon, or wherever you will, but leave us for now!”

Glóin looks at the fierceness in her eyes, and the tiredness in Gimli’s, and knows that a fight is not even worthwhile here. “Very well,” he says. “We will come by later, Gimli. Elf – come with me.”

Gimli clears his throat, but the elf just laughs and shakes his head. “If you do not see me again tonight, inquire after the state of the dungeons,” he says, and follows Glóin and Geira out of the infirmary.

When they have left the room, though, the elf turns to them. “I do not wish to impose,” he says contritely. “I had thought to simply sleep outside. I can well endure the elements, and I do well near to trees. My horse is there, as well” –

“Nonsense,” says Geira briskly. “Gimli asked us to take you to his rooms, and that is what we will do. If you need to care for your horse” –

“He will be well outside, if you have no stables,” the elf says, “I know that dwarves do not prefer to ride – but I have possessions I should retrieve, if that is acceptable. My bow was a gift, and I would prefer not to leave it in another’s hands.”

Geira and Glóin share a glance. “There are those who will not be pleased,” Glóin says, “but clearly Gimli is willing to speak for you – so we will take you to retrieve your possessions and weapons.”

They walk in quiet for a time, and then the elf speaks up again. “Regarding dungeons” –

He breaks off, and Glóin tries hard not to let his anger overcome him. Geira’s touch on his arm helps keep him calm during the elf’s long pause, before he speaks up again and brings the foundations of Glóin’s world crashing down. “I would offer my apologies,” he says slowly, “as far as I can make them, anyway – for the indignities that you suffered at the hands of my people. There are surely explanations, and perhaps you would even understand them, but that does not excuse the way you were treated.”

Glóin’s mouth opens, and then closes again. He does not stop in his tracks, but it is a near thing; it is all he can do to keep walking. Legolas does not speak but looks away quickly, as if uncertain of his own wisdom, but speaks again. “I have – learned from my past mistakes. Your son and I have traveled long together through pain and peril, and I would not be the enemy of his kin.”

They are silent for a while then, even while Legolas – and Glóin can’t call him “the elf” in his head anymore, not really – reclaims his weapons, and they lead him to Gimli’s room and leave him sitting there on Gimli’s bed.

When they walk away, Geira looks back to make sure they’re out of earshot, and then leans in closer to Glóin. “I think we may be losing our son after all,” she murmurs.

Glóin starts. “What?” He tenses, almost wanting to run back to the infirmary – but he knows that’s not what she’s talking about, though he doesn’t know what it is.

Geira looks at him: gentle, sad. “You saw it not?”

“Saw what?” This is it, he is certain, the thing he felt he was missing earlier – but he’s still missing it. Still does not know.

“They’re in love, Glóin,” Geira says gently. “I would wager anything that they tell us once Gimli is well – that they ask our blessing for the match.”

“The – no.” Glóin shakes his head, stops walking for a moment so that he can squeeze his eyes shut. “They would not – Gimli would not” –

“I cannot be sure, of course,” says Geira softly. “But I believe he has.”

“No,” Glóin repeats, but in his mind the scenes earlier are replaying – _at yours and your family’s_ – _I would not be the enemy of his kin_ – a long, slender hand wrapped around his son’s – those looks passing between them, so intimate and understanding –

No. All those signs could indicate nothing more than close companionship, brothers in arms. Glóin has fought alongside others before; he knows how it is. A voice inside him is telling him that his wife is most likely right, but he can’t – he cannot face it right now. He cannot believe it. Cannot let himself believe it.

He looks at her pleadingly, and she seems to understand, because she sighs and nods. “Come,” she says. “We will return later.”

* * *

As soon as Gimli’s parents are gone, Legolas springs to his feet.

It does not matter how lovely – Gimli spoke true about the splendors of the Glittering Caves, after all – but he cannot ever be fully comfortable, fully still, under the weight of stone. Even the caverns of his home are not truly comfortable to him – every moment spent in a cave reminded him that they were not safe, that the caverns were a last defense against an ever-encroaching darkness. And there, at least, were friends and family, people he loved, with whom he felt comfortable. Here –

It would not be so bad, perhaps, if Gimli were here to walk the halls with him. This is his home, after all, and Legolas wants to see it. But not alone. Never alone.

He will not sleep here tonight – he knows already that he will either spend the night in the infirmary, where Gimli is, or if they will not allow him there, he will slip outside to join Arod in the open air. He will not find peaceful reverie alone here.

He paces once around the room – it is lovely, he admits, for a stone-carved chamber, but smaller by far than would be his preference – and then peeks out the door. Seeing no one, he slips into the hall.

He knows it is folly to wander here; the dwarves will not take kindly to an elf in their midst unaccompanied. But he remembers the way to the healers, and makes his way there now with a light step.

There are guards outside the doors when he approaches, but he recognizes them, if only vaguely. They were never introduced, but they are the ones who accompanied Gimli’s parents into the infirmary earlier.

“May I see him?” Legolas asks politely, heart in his throat.

The guards exchange glances, and one of them sighs. “I will go in with you,” he says. “If they allow you to stay, you may stay; if not, you will have to come back out.”

“I understand.” Legolas prays that Gimli will be awake.

He is. And better, he is alone.

Gimli dismisses the guard with a smile and a wave of his hand, and Legolas sinks to the ground beside his head, seizing his hand and pressing it to his lips. “Gimli,” he sighs, tension melting out of him and leaving him barely upright. He lays his head on the pillow beside Gimli’s, so that they face each other with barely an inch of space between them.

Gimli smiles at him. “No need to fret,” he assures him. “I am well.”

“I will fret if I wish to,” Legolas retorts, clutching Gimli’s hand. “I was so afraid” –

He breaks off and shudders. The wound was not so bad, he knows now, not as bad as it could have been, in any case, and the poison not deadly. Still, after the war, he thought they were safe. Of course they knew that evil still lingered – not least in the places they wanted to return to – but he felt untouchable, after surviving such a battle – and now he knows that they are not. That Gimli’s life, short as it is already fated to be, at least in comparison to his own, could be cut even shorter still, at any moment.

“I do not want to wait,” he says instead.

Gimli’s eyes sharpen. “For what?” he asks, though Legolas thinks that he knows.

“To wed you – to bind to you” – Legolas feels his hand tighten further around Gimli’s. “Any moment could steal that chance from us, it could all end so quickly – I do not want to lose you before I have you.”

Gimli frees his hand from Legolas’s grip to touch his face, press a finger between his brows where Legolas realizes he is frowning in concern. “You have me already, my love,” he reminds him. “Our hearts are bound already – all that remains are the formalities.” He traces the finger along Legolas’s eyebrows, around his right eye, and down his cheek to the corner of his mouth. Legolas has just opened it to speak, to say it is more than a formality to him, when Gimli’s thumb brushes over his lower lip, and he lets out a quick huff of air and nothing more. “Still,” Gimli continues, “I understand. I would still court you in dwarvish fashion” – his finger slips just inside Legolas’s mouth, drawing tingles on the backside of his lip – “but your elvish wedding, we may hold sooner – as soon, if you wish,” and he smiles wickedly, “as I am out of this cursed bandage and fully able to participate!”

Warmth swells in Legolas’s belly, and he smiles helplessly, mouth stretching so wide that Gimli’s finger loses its purchase and slides away. He cups his hand against Legolas’s cheek, instead, and leans forward to kiss at his smile until it softens into a response, and they simply lose themselves in one another for a time.

Legolas recovers first, and pulls away gently. Gimli lets out a disappointed noise when he does, and Legolas touches his face in apology. “I would prefer this not be the way your parents find out about us,” he whispers. “Though I wonder if they already suspect.”

“My father would not,” Gimli says confidently. “I think our friendship is shock enough to him – he will look for nothing more. But my mother is keen. She may be aware.”

“Maybe.” Legolas remembers a few looks she gave him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention, some quiet humming noises. “Do you think they will – try to stop us?”

“Dwarves love but once,” says Gimli, “and that love is one that will not be turned aside by parental disapproval. My parents will forgive, or will not, as the case may be – but they will not stop us. They will not be able to.”

“And the same goes for mine,” Legolas responds. “We, too, wed once in our lives. Our loves” – He hesitates. “Our loves may be many, but only once do we find one to whom we wish to bind ourselves, body and soul. Once bound, that bond cannot be unmade.”

“Ah, so that is your hurry,” Gimli teases. “You wish to have done before your father may say you nay.”

“I – do not think he would,” Legolas muses. “He does not care for dwarves, it is true, but – I believe he cares more for my happiness than for old grudges. But it is true that it would make our case more . . . compelling.” He nips at Gimli’s mouth once more, pulling away when Gimli tries to deepen the kiss and laughing breathily at his scowl.

“You will pay for that once I am out of this bed,” grumbles Gimli.

“Will I?” Heat rushes through Legolas’s body, stealing his breath. Suddenly he is earnest, fixing his eyes on Gimli’s face. He has no experience with physical love – has never _wanted_ like this, has never imagined the desire he feels now. “I should warn you,” he ventures, “I know little of the ways of love. Eager as I am, my knowledge of the matter may be – lacking.”

“It matters not.” Gimli’s smile is soft, kind. “I will teach you.”

Legolas opens his mouth, but then he hears the sound of footsteps approaching and jerks away, pushing himself back up to his knees and brushing back his hair, trying to breathe down the heat he knows to be flushing his face. “Someone comes,” he whispers to Gimli.

Gimli nods and subsides, but twitches his hand, and Legolas takes it again. This much, he will show.

It is Naina, as it turns out, bustling back into the healing ward with intent. She spares Legolas a glance. “Here again, Master Elf?” she says. “Worse than an over-fussy lover, you are.”

Legolas masterfully does not freeze, or twitch. He forces a laugh, and feels Gimli’s hand tighten in his. “I apologize for my intrusion, my lady,” he says. “I fear I have spent too long with Master Gimli to feel at ease without his presence.”

“Aye, and the mountain full of unfamiliar dwarves has naught to do with that, I am certain!” Naina shoots him an amused look even as Gimli chuckles. “Stand aside, Master Elf. I’ll suffer you to be here so long as you stay out of the way.”

Legolas tugs his hand out of Gimli’s grasp and moves aside, but keeps his eyes on his face. Gimli offers him a smile, only flinching a bit when the bandage is unwrapped and Naina probes at the wound. Legolas can make out each stitch that she so meticulously made earlier, even as he watched. She smears a salve atop the stitches – for better cleaning and binding the skin, she explained earlier – and bandages the wound freshly. She speaks not, and moves efficiently; Legolas does not try to hide his admiration, though her back is to him.

She finishes quickly and backs up. “You have become a better patient, son of Glóin,” she says, and now she smiles. “I will return in a few hours to apply this salve again – it must be done regularly, especially for wounds from an Orc-blade. I assume you will still be here when I return?” She turns to give Legolas another amused glance.

Gimli starts to protest, but Legolas just inclines his head. “It is likely,” he says.

Gimli scowls at him, Legolas raises an eyebrow, and Gimli subsides with a huff. “A plague on the stiff necks of elves,” he mutters, and Legolas laughs out loud and moves forward to squeeze his hand again.

Naina is giving him a strange look, eyebrows inching up just a bit. Her eyes flick from his face to Gimli’s, and then to their joined hands – but to let go at this point would be more of a giveaway than otherwise, so Legolas just holds on and meets her curious gaze with an impassive one of his own. After a moment, she lets out a breath, slowly, and nods once. Legolas does not know what this means – his practice reading dwarvish faces is limited to one – so he remains quiet and waits.

She clears her throat. “Rest well, Gimli,” she says. “And bear in mind, the both of you, that your parents will likely return soon.”

**Author's Note:**

> And, uh . . . that's it. There might have been more, but I couldn't figure out how telling-the-family would actually work, and then I ended up repurposing a lot of these elements and intentions in Worth and decided this story wasn't worth (heh) picking up and finishing. I hope you've enjoyed it, though, if you took the chance, and that my shaky early-days voice didn't put you off. :)


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